


Difficult

by Outofangband



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angband, Elves do not view those who have interacted with Morgoth kindly, Even if the interaction was not their choice, Implications of weird things, Mental Illness, Morgoth - Freeform, PTSD, stigma - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 11:43:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17487452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Outofangband/pseuds/Outofangband
Summary: (Summery: shortly after Maedhros’s rescue, Fingolfin sees for the first time how traumatized his nephew is. Canon compliant though technically does work very well with the AU I am planning. Brief description of self injury. Deals with PTSD)(OK so I was wrong. This prompt did end up being about Maedhros but maybe the next one won’t be?)





	Difficult

**Author's Note:**

> (written for @badthingshappenbingo on Tumblr. Prompt: 'kind restraints')

Fingolfin sat in his study, two fingers pressed against his temple when, for the fourth time that day, his door was opened without the intruder first knocking. He turned, half expecting to see his frantic son again. Already planning a slightly exasperated, apologetic greeting, he was surprised to see the head healer looking quite grim. Fingolfin’s heart sank.  
      “I am sorry for the intrusion, My Lord, but this concerns your nephew.”  
    _Yes I could have guessed that_  he almost says but instead raises a curious eyebrow. He tries his best not to use sarcasm out of anger and especially not towards those he does not know well. The healer sighs and Fingolfin attempts to not become annoyed, wishing whatever news would just be said. Surely no one fears him to the point where they hesitate to impart vital information? Though in this case, he can hardly blame them. Nelyo’s condition has had everyone on edge, not least the less experienced healers who had never dealt with this degree of trauma and injury.  
       “He will not settle, My Lord, he is frantic and agitated and I fear he will injure himself more if he does not calm down soon.” Fingolfin stood. This was surprising. From what he had heard, and in the brief moments he had been allowed to spend with his nephew, Maedhros was almost catatonic, unspeaking, curling up in fear if anyone moved too close. It was gutwrenching to witness, of course, seeing Fëanor’s brilliant and kind eldest behaving, (and he felt guilty for even making the comparison in his mind) like a beaten dog. But what the healer was describing was new.  
     “What changed?” Fingolfin inquired, walking towards the door. The healer looked slightly guilty.  
       “We needed to change some of the bandages on his chest, but he would not let us. He would not move from his position against the wall, so,” he paused, “I was ordered to give him an herbal tonic to help him sleep. As soon as it began to take effect, he started fighting it, thrashing, trying to strike anyone who came near. My Lord, if this continues, he will tear some of his stitches and we may need to restrain him.” Fingolfin turned sharply.  
        “Do NOT tie him down,” he ordered, “Let me see him. Now,” he said as the healer hesitated. Closing the door behind him, he walks swiftly towards the infirmary, waving his hand at the healer’s attempts to stop him. Entering, he saw Maedhros sitting in the corner, arms wrapped around his knees, one of the cuts on his arm had indeed been reopened and bled, staining the thin white gown he wore. His face was covered and he rocked slightly, clearly terrified. One of the other healers stood in the other corner, half pitying, half annoyed. Fingolfin glared at him.   
      “He hardly looks agitated,” he says cooly, lowering his voice. Terrified, yes. Confused and disoriented and very much not like himself but not agitated.   
      The healer who had come to talk with him shakes her head.   
“You did not hear him, My Lord,” she says softly. Fingolfin looks puzzled.   
“Hear him? He has spoken?” Surely this was good news! Maedhros had not spoken much more than a few incoherent, frantic sentences while still asleep. The other elf looks saddened.   
“He...he was not speaking any language we know of,” she says carefully, “My Lord...he is very ill. More ill than we thought.” Fingolfin wants to curse in frustration. Yes, these were difficult times, yes, this was an extremely personal and delicate matter but he could not afford more delays. He needs them to say exactly what is going on and to tell him what he can do about it.   
Without waiting for another word from the healers, Fingolfin approaches his nephew, sitting on the floor a few paces away from him. He could feel, with some annoyance, the healers practically holding their breaths as though this fragile, emaciated elf was going to attack him.   
     “Nelya?” he asks softly, “Is it alright if I sit here?” Maedhros does not uncover his face. He seems to be trying to say something. Whatever it is is being repeated again and again. Fingolfin can tell from the way his mouth moves that it is almost like a mantra of some sort. But this was hardly the frantic behavior the healers were describing. He moves closer, resting his hand on Maedhros’s shoulder.   
The younger elf suddenly tenses, moving away from his uncle faster than Fingolfin might have thought possible. Pressing himself against the wall, Maedhros scratches at the spot on his shoulder where Fingolfin touched for a moment. His expression does not change but whatever he is saying seems to be repeated faster.   
“Alright....alright...” Fingolfin murmurs, more to himself than to his nephew. He wishes they were not in the corner of the room. He does not want to make Maedhros feel cornered or trapped. But he can hardly let him continue this. With a small sigh, he gently takes the other elf’s arms, holding them at his sides. Maedhros does begin to thrash at this. Fingolfin can hardly blame him. Though he has not yet been able to hear the full report of his nephew’s injuries, he has seen the scars on his arms and legs and knows if nothing else, his movements in the past several decades were limited, often and brutally.   
    “Nelya, it is alright,” he tries to say, “I am not going to harm you. I promise. Take a breath, nephew, please...” Maedhros screams something then. Twice, he repeats some phrase or declaration as he continues to try and fight his uncle’s gentle but firm grip.  Fingolfin takes several minutes trying to understand it before he realizes with dread that the healers were right. It is another language. Not any form of elven, as far as he can tell, nor is it even the harsh, quick speech of the Dark Foe’s soldiers and servants. No...it is something else, something closer to the language he had heard back in Valinor, the tongue of the Ainur, and Fingolfin knows then why the healers had been so alarmed by it.  
    Maedhros’s thrashing does not last long. He is exhausted and weak and after five or so minutes, he collapses against his uncle’s chest, shaking violently. Fingolfin does his best to help him to his feet and lead him back to bed. Maedhros clutches the sheets until his knuckles turn white but he seems to have calmed slightly, at least in body. Fingolfin gestures for the healers to leave the room with him.   
      “I am sorry, My Lord,” says the younger of the healers looking nervous. Fingolfin fixes him with a hard look.  
“I know what you are thinking,” he says quietly. The two other elves look surprised but do not speak.   
“You are wrong,” Fingolfin enunciates firmly, “And you are not to speak of your ‘suspicions’ to anyone. Is that clear?” The older healer looks like she would like to argue but merely shrugs.   
     “Yes, My Lord.” Fingolfin knows that this will not last. He knows of the rumors that will spread through his already fractured camp by the end of the week but that hardly matters now.


End file.
